hip hop on the blaring radio, a jet's tracks light up the sky,
the bridge still stands and watches a lady's breasts, but you
know the tankers keep on coming, with the first MBA president

cheering this massive military entertainment complex, for the vast

majority of Americans, only 15 % of whom have passports, it's called

simply a decapitation strategy, a police action, an operation, perhaps

a conflict, maybe a moral duty, responsibility, perhaps protection, a

strategy for removing the dictator, a story of cowboys on a brand new

mission, this shock and awe thing for brand-makers and puritans,

as someone silently spits into a cell phone, torn between his girl-friend's
ass and some secret retaliation, it's a warm day on the beach, an unknown
place with a scarlet carpet where all are finally welcome, with a violent kind of
supremacy.

I see some bald guy on the beach, he stares silently at the sleeping
babes, with their tight stomachs exposed to the cheering waves, as
U.S. special forces attack, the sand is a common battle for a bridge with
American soldiers now in control of the crossing, and with the bald guy
simply oblivious to the drifting chatter.

The images on the TV screen seem brittle indeed, but
the key idea seems to be infinite power, the storm gods
are now active and changeable in character, people have
grown weary of them, the pixels on the flat glass,
stage a story of an organized abyss, not far from Nippur
or Ur, these blasts are dominant in a deeper cosmic sense,
the ticker tape of breaking news brought on by the secret
cults with their gods of profit, they have left the planet,
without a safe compass as it struggles with temptations
in this barren urn....

we are now wandering on this
inferior path where the supply of grace could dry up before
long, this nervous strain which is most expensive and can
easily be avoided, the television asks us that we give up much
of what’s desired and the smoke plumes are a disappointing
experience, as our hearts grow strong in this impossible exile.

There's a cigarette butt in the sand,
lost to time, even lost to fire, with
aphrodite, honey, sparrows then lost
in the rotton carrions,

it's now safe to go cruising on the beach,
it's tip of sky
a ballast beneath these kind desirings,
as the naked ones become gripped
by single syllables,

that stare into the
ocean's roar and are rocked by the
slam of a holy hammer.

Purple hills, yellow flowers,
this savage quarantine, carpets
of this bliss, as the earth breathes
trees and those lungs of violet colors,
tranquility bliss' dark clouds in this
universe of technological terrorists,
where millions seek peace in these
plutonium administrations, Oh, Mother
I'm surrendering now.

I saw a dead seal on the black beach,
by the light of the full nakid moon, the
seal's dried skin being a hot seat of peeled
amusements, its dry husks, a horseplay
burning with the abundance of the sea, a

kind compliment, a forceful connection,
a keen return to the scarlet woman of the
effortless seas, I opened my full heart, to all
her joyful abundance, and kissed her near the
living goddess, that openly dwells by the sea.